Lost: One Sock, One Brother
by LoupGarouAngel
Summary: It was just an average laundry stop when Dean vanished into thin air. Season 1. All angst and brotherly love.


Click-chinggg-click-chinggg-click-chinggg-click-chinggg-Hmmmm.

Sam listens as the washer next to him buzzes to life as his brother slips in quarter after quarter. He hears Dean breath a heavy sigh as his dirty laundry swishes to life in the circular device. The water splashes and sloshes into a foamy lather, the darkness of his jeans and shirts mixing into oblivion within the machine.

Sam doesn't look up from his laptop as he scans the article on a local murder. It's the third one this week. A young female was walking home, next morning they find her body torn to shreds. Sam always wishes the murders didn't have to happen first.

His brother lingers a moment before he returns to his chair where the current issue of "Busty Asian Beauties" lie waiting for him. He flips it open with a loud flurry of commotion only Dean could manage when at the peak of boredom. The flipping and crinkling of pages, a constant creaking of his form moving about in the uncomfortable chair makes Sam slide a glare at his brother.

Dean has a look of agitation on his face. His lip in a sneer, nostrils flared, a clenched jaw as his eyes narrow in annoyance.

"Really?" Sam questions with a brow quirked in both his own aggravation and true curiosity.

Dean glares back at him with defiance.

"Yes, _really_. This is the most ridiculous laundry mat I've ever been in. No vending machines, no comfy chairs and no hot soccer moms."

Sam chuckles and eyes the place, not really disagreeing with Dean on this one. Its white walls are beginning to yellow, a few commercialized photos on the walls shrivel with age and some rather odd and cheesy nick-knacks of happy looking gnomes sit atop the old machines. And although the place smells of fabric softener and detergent, an underlying scent of mildew and age lingers. The white and green tiles are dull and don't shine. The racks beginning to rust from years of wet clothes sitting in them. The dryers are loud, like little thunderous storms conquering the tiny place.

His eyes turn to the windows, rain is streaking down them in quick, tiny rives. Tricks of light and dark dancing within the drops. The pitter-patter is a constant white noise, like the swishing of the washers around them. The November skies are grey and offer no light to aid the fluorescents above. They threaten to turn the icy drizzle into snowy crystals at any moment. The scent of snow has been on the wind since yesterday and it will start any time now. The cold wind knocks the unsteady window panes like hollowed bones. They rattle and shake, the wind getting its little wisps of frigid air in "Georges Laundromat".

"Place is in a major need of remodeling."

Sam turns at his brothers words, whose own eyes are roaming the place.

Sam chuckles and stands, he stretches his stiff legs and turns toward his own washer as it buzzes with completion. He creaks open the door and reaches in, large hands grab many flannels and jeans by the fistfuls. The damp jeans are rough and heavy. The flannels are getting flimsy and thin. Sam knows he needs to go shopping soon enough. Once his rack his full and washer empty he rolls the cart toward the dryers, the wheels squeaking loudly along the way.

Sam hears the buzz of Dean's washer finish and he glances up as his brother stands and heads over to it. Sam continues to shovel the clothes into the large dryer, knowing they'll save a few bucks by sharing a large one. Dean bitches of course, says he doesn't want his shorts touchin' Sam's shorts. But Sam knows Dean would rather spend the saved bucks on a beer.

Sam leaves the bubbled dryer door open and returns to his chair, mind churning over possible scenarios to the current case. He hears Dean shuffle over with his own cart, wheels just as squeaky. Sam taps away at the keys on his laptop as the rain continues to pitter-patter, the washers keep sloshing and Dean loudly puts his clothes into the dryer. He slams the door shut and turns to the slots.

"Right, need quarters…"

Dean returns to his chair where a bag of quarters sit. He picks them up and shakes them loudly, the clinking bringing a grin to his face. Sam glares up with hard eyes.

"Are you really able to be this bothersome at all times?"

Dean raises a brow and chews his lip as he seems to contemplate then gives his cocky smile.

"I'm your brother; I'm supposed to be bothersome."

Dean trudges back to the dryer and begins to put the quarters in the slot reading 25 cents.

Click-chinggg-click-chinggg-click-chinggg-click-

It's funny how Sam's ears almost strain to hear that chinggg. But it doesn't come. In that moment it is as if the room has muted. Every sound seems to just stop. Then the sound of a quarter bouncing off the tiled floor greets his ears. It's actually what causes him to look up and find no Dean where he was just standing. Sam's face drops as his heart begins to race, his gut twists with anxiety as he realizes something is very wrong.

"Dean?" He throws the question into the empty room.

No one replies.

Sam stands and looks around bewildered. He looks outside and finds the lot still empty, just the Impala sitting there.

"Dean!"

He runs to the small restrooms and slams open the doors, but no one is there. He runs behind the counter, opens the small cleaning closet and opens the dryers and washers in a fit of hysteria. His eyes are wide in horror as he shakes in fear.

His brother is gone.

…

Dean gasps, the air in his lungs being sucked out of him. He feels like the floor is being ripped out from under him. He grasps at the air around him, realizing his eyes are open and all he is seeing is darkness. He feels like he is falling, but he honestly can't tell which is up and which is down.

With a slam his feet plant on solid ground. He breathes quick and heavy, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Before he can think, all he sees is blinding white lights and hears a blaring horn.

Then he fades back into the darkness.

…


End file.
